“Thanks for, uh, bringing me here.”
“No problem. You’ve been holding yourself together pretty well.”
I nod.
“But there’s nothing wrong with asking for a shoulder to cry on.” He suddenly grins. “Not that you have any problem with that.”
I can feel my face go lobster red.
“Ah, come on now,” he says. “You created a chain reaction out there. Even the boys were crying buckets for you.”
I look at him skeptically, hopefully.
Mr. T leans in close. “And I’ll be the first to pound anyone who gives you grief about it,” he adds, giving me a fond look. “ ’Cause you know, us bros have to stick together.”
I grin just as the doctor comes in.
Turns out, my arm isn’t completely broken.
“Just a hairline fracture,” the doctor says, putting a soft cast on my arm.
“So I can still play soccer?”
“Not this season.”
My heart sinks again, but I decide he’s not even close to being right.
Dad and I are both discharged a couple of hours later.
He was trying to get in the van with Jaimes, after Verity left, when he fell out of his wheelchair, headfirst. And since he can’t hold out his hands anymore, to break the fall, he smashed into the concrete headfirst and broke the orbital bone around his eye and got nine stitches in his forehead.
“Your mom says I have to stop my boxing career,” he says. “You too.”
“Mom’s right.”
When we get home, Jaimes looks like she’s all cried out but still manages to burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Mom says.
“I’m good,” Dad says. “I’m groovy.” His voice slurs and his head lolls back and forth. The pain meds are taking effect. He doesn’t ask for a sip of water, but Mom brings the straw to his lips anyway. He barely makes an effort to take it. Or maybe he just can’t.
“Ice is your best friend!” Mom says, holding up frozen peas. “Both of you.”
I hold my own bag of peas.
She holds Dad’s.
When I trudge up to bed, Jaimes is already in hers, covers pulled up over her head. There are soggy wadded-up tissues all over the floor. I stare out the window at Lucy’s, then at Jaimes, wondering what to do.
Finally I just lie down next to her and put my good arm around my sister.
“I heard what you did. That was really dumb,” she says, voice muffled under the covers.
“Thanks.”
“And totally wicked.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
Later that night I can hear Lucy’s roller skates and Benny’s voice. While Roma and Whitney tuck me in, I can hear Mom saying I need to rest.
“Our poor, poor brother,” Roma says.
Whitney clucks tragically and tucks five stuffed animals under my neck. They’re soft.
I told Roma that even though her cells are dying, there were new ones being made every single second of the day. Isn’t that what’s happening to my arm? Cells are broken and dying but also trying to heal me. New cells every single second. So that means I will play again.
With four games left of the regular season, I will be on that field, so help me.
By the way? Did breaking my arm even mean anything? We still lost the game. That last goal counted because the ref hadn’t blown his whistle yet.
The World Is Short on Finishers
You think soccer is just a game? Well then, you’ve never played it.
—GOLDEN
A week later and I’m still not playing.
I can’t even practice.
Not even wearing the captain’s armband makes me feel better. I watch as Mudbury Middle plays against Kearsarge again and pulls out a win with me on the bench. Four days after that we lose to Lakes Middle School, a game we should definitely have won. However, Benny calls to tell me both Shaker and Merrimack also suffered heavy losses.
“Don’t give up,” Benny says. “We’re still in this.”
Are we? I try to rally while I sit glumly on a barstool in the kitchen.
“What’s up, Golden?”
Dad turns his chair around in the kitchen and looks at me. His right eye is swollen shut and the entire right side of his face is starting to turn into one dark-purple-blue-black bruise. The skin around his stitches looks red and itchy. He opens and closes his eye at the irritation.
“I feel useless. I can’t play soccer. Can’t help my team. I can’t do anything.”
Even as I say it, I realize it sounds ridiculous while facing a guy in a wheelchair. We look at each other. Dad’s mouth twitches.
“Dad, how… how can you stand it?”
“Hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“I couldn’t stand it.”
“No… choice.”
Sigh.
“Walk?” Dad asks.
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns his chair around and heads for the door.
Before going out, I one-handedly put a load of laundry in, remembering all the steps without Jaimes being my boss. I put a hat on Dad’s head, then a straw to his mouth. His lips tighten around it. Up, up, up comes the water, with big gulping sounds. I imagine Dad’s brain telling his tongue to move, his throat to swallow. I see the epiglottis covering the trachea to prevent water from entering the lungs.
He leans back in his chair, concentrating on the swallow.
“You okay, Dad?”
“Yes,” he gasps.
“Do you need a suction?” The suction is our newest machine because it’s so hard for Dad to swallow his own spit now.
“No.”
Dad taps the arm of the wheelchair with his left fingers as I open the door. He wiggles his two fingers, trying to inch them forward.
“Help?”
Swallows. “Yes.”
I carefully move Dad’s arm and arrange his fingers to fit around the joystick. We make it to the porch.
“Hey, Dad? Why don’t we just stay on the porch?”
“ ’Kay.” He sounds relieved. A long line of drool comes out of his mouth.
I wipe his mouth with my sleeve, take his swollen, banged-up head in my two hands. It feels so heavy. I gently place it back on the headrest.
We take in the forest that lines our shared driveway, the evergreen tips that sway in the breeze, the bright blue sky holding clouds the shapes of dragons.
“Love fall,” he says. “Nice air.”
“Yes.”
“Coach needs you,” Dad says.
“How? I’m useless.”
“No,” he says. “You have a choice… to make.”
I look down at my arm.
“Anyone can be… negative… discipline to be positive. Your superpower. Remem…?”
He takes big gulps of air and swallows several times. “Don’t… give up,” he says. Swallow.
“It’s okay, Dad. You don’t have to talk.”
“Lead from bench. Wambach…”
I know who he means. Abby Wambach, #20, one of the best players in the world, two-time Olympic gold medalist, FIFA World Cup champion, top international goal scorer. During her last game she didn’t start, but she cheered so hard and so loud—from the bench—that the US won anyway.
Oh yeah, and she was captain.
Lead from the bench.
“Gold… en?”
“Yeah?”
I lean in—I can barely hear him.
“Don’t give up on me… (swallow) either.”
Dad wiggles his two left fingers until they grasp the end of my shorts. That left hand. Those two fingers. Fighting so hard to hang on.
He struggles to sit as straight as possible. And it is a struggle—I can see the fight for every single muscle fiber in his body. Sometimes I’ve felt he was too accepting, when all I wanted was for him to put up a fight. But right now I see the fire that flares up in his eyes, the look I’ve seen countless times
when he was pushing me to be stronger and better.
I’ve been wrong. Dad has never given up.
“The world… is short on finishers,” he says. “Finish… this!”
Dad sinks back, exhausted, struggling to breathe, making small gasping sounds in his throat until he stabilizes. His face goes from a purple to a healthier pink. He smiles for my benefit as his vessels loosen their squeeze on his heart and the desperate pumping slows.
“Let’s get you a shake,” I say as confidently as I can. “More fat ’cause we have to gain weight. Avocado, whole milk, and how about that chocolate ice cream? Don’t tell Mom.”
I put my hand on his wheelchair as he turns it around with his fingers.
“Such a… good boy,” he says.
“Such a good dad.”
Gag Me Almost Kills Me with a Bread Knife (Worth It.)
Maybe it’s not your job to make everything better.
—LUCY LITTLEHOUSE
The next week I still haven’t been cleared to play and I stay home with Dad for two days when Nurse Verity is sick.
Mom doesn’t even protest.
She says “How’s Dad?” a lot, tries to work a few hours from home, cleans the house, runs errands, and coaches soccer. I help Mom give Dad medication and get him in and out of his wheelchair. When I watch her feed Dad, she reminds me, “Soon Dad’s going to have a feeding tube in his stomach.”
I try to remember how the wheelchair made his life easier. A feeding tube will help Dad eat more. Anyway, I would prefer to never ever hear the sound of choking again.
Dad and I go outside for walks. I put the straw to his lips, suction out his mouth, and practice my touch outside while he watches. I log five hours in two days, carefully making marks on my chart. Sugar Ray watches from the back porch. Curtis watches from Lucy’s porch, tail swishing, occasionally chasing my ball just to remind me how annoying he is.
Lunges.
Squats.
Juggling.
Crunches.
Bigger stronger faster.
Most of the time, Dad stays parked next to me. I say “parked” because Mom and Dad both agree that the wheelchair is the safest way for him to move around now—even in the house. He rarely gets out of it except to go to the bathroom and go to bed.
We watch a lot of soccer. Sometimes Dad closes his eyes when I’m celebrating a great play.
“Sorry, Dad. Do you want me to change the channel?”
“No,” he always says. “Love… soccer.”
Only one gross thing happens. Dad gets a hair stuck in his mouth.
“Thowwy to ask—hair.” He moves his tongue around, bends his head down, but can’t get his fingers to reach his mouth. I adjust his head as he opens his mouth.
“I don’t see the hair.”
I touch his tongue, fish around the inside of his mouth, my fingers becoming coated with saliva. He gags twice and coughs. “Ew,” I say, pulling out a long brown hair coated with spit. “Jaimes is a health hazard.”
I shake it onto the ground, wipe my hand on my pants, and wipe Dad’s mouth off. He grimaces.
“You. Taste like sweat,” he says. “But… thanks.”
On the second day home, I begin to wonder about my team.
What drills are they running?
Do they miss me on the field?
Do they notice I’m gone?
I miss my team.
And Coach. Even her Hulk ways.
I miss Lucy and Benny.
I can think of only one productive Operation Lucy tactic: I fill up every single balloon I can find with water, load them in my hamper, and hide them in my closet for just the right Dark Lord moment.
I wait impatiently for the Squirrels to get home.
“Who got the MVP Gum of the Day?” I demand when they burst through the front door.
“Mario,” Whitney says. “And guess what!”
She pulls a navy-blue Mudbury Middle School jersey out of her backpack.
“Number ten!” Whitney shouts. “Messi’s number!”
“Slick’s going to—”
“He gave it to you,” Whitney says. She lays it reverently on the floor for us all to admire.
I kneel down, finger the edge. “No way.”
“He says you still have to pay him one day,” Whitney adds.
Jerk.
“But I gave him my lunch money.”
“Ah, Whit.” She looks so pleased I give her a high five and a hug.
“Golden Macaroni!” I look up to see Lucy and Benny crashing through the front door, followed by Mom, followed by Grandma Ho and Mrs. Ho, who’s wearing hot pads on her hands and carrying a glass dish. I almost melt into a grateful puddle right then and there.
“Surprise!” Lucy says.
“Hey, man,” Benny says.
“Thank you,” Mom says. There’s a look of grateful resignation in her eyes.
“Hi, Grandma Ho!” I say.
“This is Golden,” Mrs. Ho says like we’ve never met before. “You remember?”
“Of course she remembers me!” I peer closely at her face. Doesn’t she?
Grandma Ho pats my cheek.
“Come here, Ma,” Mrs. Ho says, leading her over to the barstools.
“Is Grandma Ho okay?” I ask Benny.
He shrugs. “Sometimes. Sometimes not.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. And I mean it. For everything.
Benny nods. “I know.”
“You finally figured out a way to get the jersey,” Lucy says to me. “By breaking your arm.”
She smiles, all sweaty from practice, her face bright red, hair pulled back in a ponytail, big feathery earrings in her ears.
Dad drinks a smoothie while the rest of us eat minced beef and tofu rice, pan-fried Chinese spinach, clay pot eggplant, bamboo leaf sticky rice, and Benny’s favorite dessert, called tang yuan: rice-flour dumplings filled with black sesame.
“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I moan after stuffing myself and falling to the kitchen floor in a glutinous stupor.
Whitney giggles at me.
“I think I gained ten pounds,” Mom moans.
“That’s awesome,” I say dreamily, thinking of my growth chart.
It’s a great dinner, all of us together. Even if Dad has to drink it.
* * *
The next morning I’m awoken to Jaimes yelling.
“Mom! Golden dyed all my whites pink! I told him—I specifically said to separate the whites from the darks—especially when it comes to the color red.”
“He was trying to be helpful,” Mom says. “Be kind.”
“My white pants!” Jaimes yells.
I bury my face in my pillow so she won’t hear me laughing—but it really was an accident!
When I finally do get up, since I can’t shower easily with my cast, I wipe myself down with a wet wipe and go to school smelling like a freshly bathed infant. Dad sits in his chair, his broken face still healing.
He looks after me, watching until I’m all the way out the door.
“I’ll be back in a few hours!” I say. “And I’ll tell you everything.”
Even though I can’t play soccer—and I’m wearing pink underwear—the day turns out okay.
My friends take turns drawing on my soft cast, Lucy signing with her sparkly pink pen and swirly penmanship.
“Guess there’s no dancing for you, huh?” Slick says, signing his name obnoxiously big. “So sad.”
“That’s what you think!” I say. I’d forgotten—until Slick practically dared me.
Oh, I’ll be going to the dance.
In a totally impulsive moment, Benny and I sneak away during lunch break. I pull him over to a flower patch where a patch of blue flowers grows.
“I want to give Lucy some flowers,” I say without looking him. “Lucy loves flowers and she’s been kind of mad at me and I want to dance with her at the dance.…”
Benny looks at me sideways but thankfully doesn’t laugh.
; “Okay. Minor detail,” Benny says. “Those are Ms. Gag Me’s flowers. She comes outside after lunch and waters them. You have to decide if the dance is worth your possible demise.”
“Maybe she won’t notice?”
“Remember when we were told she’s the witch in ‘Rapunzel’? If you pick her flowers she’ll come for your firstborn child. Think of Sugar Ray,” he says, trying to keep a straight face.
“Dude… not funny!”
The late bell rings.
I quickly and savagely pull on the flowers.
“Go!” Benny says, stomping on the dirt. We make a dash for the door, only to find we’re locked out. Slick sees us, waves, and walks away.
“For real?!” Benny yells.
“Lunchroom doors,” I say.
“That’s where Gag Me is!”
“Do you want to get back in or not?”
We’re through the lunchroom and halfway down the hallway when an awful pterodactyl screech fills the middle school hallway, echoing off the walls and into our ears.
We whirl around.
Gag Me is marching down the hall wearing an apron and pointing a lunchroom bread knife at us.
“Weasels!” Gag Me says, waving the knife around. “I want them back!”
We back up, hitting the locker doors.
“Uh, I’m really sorry, Gag—Mrs. Gagne. B-but—” I stammer.
At that moment, saving us from certain death, Mr. T intervenes.
“Thank you, Ms. Gagne,” he says looking down at us. “I’ll handle this.”
“See that you do!”
While she marches away, Mr. T fixes his eyes on us, unsmiling.
“Nice scarf,” I say. “New pattern?”
“Nice try.”
“It was for a really good cause—” I begin.
“We will discuss this later. Get to class.”
I stop to stow them in my locker until the bell rings. After class, Mr. T and I have a “discussion” about taking flowers from school property. I try to look repentant while heading to and opening my locker, but then Lucy comes down the hall.
“Here,” I say, thrusting the flowers at her, ignoring the fawning sounds from Sunny and Sam. Lucy reaches out to take the flowers, her bracelets tinkling. By now the flowers are not nearly as impressive: pathetically wilted and droopy. “They’re forget-me-nots,” I say. Sunny melts, hand to heart.
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